RUPERT  BROOKE'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL 

"Basedon  the  J^pg  of  the  French  Hospital  Ship  T>  UgUzAT- 
T%p  UIJ^  Trans/atedfrom  the  French  of  J.  Perdriel- 
Vaissieres  by  Vincent  O' Sullivan 


^^T*roudy  theriy  clear-eyed  and  laughing^ 
Qo  to  greet  'Death  as  a  friends 

RUi'ERT  BROOKE 


<iApril  twenty-second^  IQI^. 

1 N  the  roadstead  of  Trebouki:  This  is  the  first  hah  on  the 
expedition  to  the  East.  After  the  noisy  coaling-station 
of  Alexandria,  we  have  now  before  our  eyes  the  starkness 
of  a  marble  island.  Lying  about  us  are  the  Savoie,  the 
\)ille-de-Qarthagey  the  Uinh-J^ngy  which  form  the  first 
line  of  bearing  of  the  French  expeditionary  force;  and 
also  the  battleships  Qanopus yT^rince  Qeorge  and  'Prince 
8dwardyt\)i&  advance  line  of  the  supporting  squadron  of 
the  British. 

[    3    ] 


_  [     4    _] 

We  have  not  heard  artillery  since  we  were  in  the  North 
Sea  amid  the  roaring  of  the  battle  of  the  Yser.  Here  the 
vividness  of  the  mild  April  morning,  the  light  like  a  scarf 
about  the  hill-tops,  the  bay  like  an  enclosed  lake — all 
breathe  peace. 

A  cutter  puts  off  from  the  'Prince  Qeorge;  it  comes 
toward  us  and  draws  alongside.  They  have  brought  on  a 
stretcher  a  man  who  is  ill  of  some  malady,  for  there  are 
no  wounded  here  yet. 

It  is  a  lieutenant  on  General  Hamilton's  staff.  His  face 
is  bloodless;  he  gazes  with  large  blue  eyes  which  have 
still  a  good  deal  of  life  in  them;  he  has  an  eruption  on 
the  lip.  An  officer,  a  friend  of  his,  tall  and  fair,  with  the 
air  of  an  English  gentleman,  is  by  his  side.  This  is  Lieu- 
tenant Asquith,son  of  the  Prime  Minister. 

Here,  in  a  little  white  cabin  in  the  round-house,  the 
whole  medical  staff  is  mobilised  for  the  single  patient. 
But  is  it  not  too  late? 

Wireless  messages  come  in;  "What  is  the  news?"  Gen- 
eral Hamilton  and  Mr.  Winston  Churchill  are  worrying; 
all  England  is  interested  in  the  condition  of  this  young 
man.  He  is  worse;  the  dreadful  poison  is  doing  its  work. 
How  did  the  accident — this  appalling  and  stupid  acci- 
dent— happen? 

It  was  yesterday.  He  had  gone  ashore  on  the  marble 
island  where  scarcely  anything  grows  but  sweet-smelling 
shrubs.  He  makes  his  way  through  the  holly-bushes,  the 
sage-brush  and  balsam  and  storax,  following  a  mysterious 
clue  which  he  takes  to  be  the  thread  of  his  loftiest  dreams, 
and  which  is  without  doubt  the  thread  of  his  fate — terri- 
ble black  thread — the  last  thread.  He  comes  to  that  glade 


[  5  ] 
you  may  see  on  the  far  side  where  there  is  a  little  water, 
some  olive  trees,  a  silvery  corner  where  the  breeze  trem- 
bles. Here  the  poet  rests.  Then —Oh,  yes,  indeed,  it  was 
the  ultimate  dream! — then  a  little  grey  fly,  quite  unno- 
ticeable  (here  in  the  Orient  within  a  month  we  shall  have 
patches  of  flies  everywhere),  the  tiny  fly  stung  him  just 
near  the  lip.  A  fly  ?  A  bee  out  of  the  darkness  attrad:ed 
by  the  honey  of  words.  Rupert  Brooke  has  a  malignant 
ulcer. 

The  wireless  is  inquiring  again.   Reply:  He  is  worse. 

Does  he  still  see  this  white  cabin  where  they  are  trying 
rather  hopelessly  to  neutralize  the  poison?  Is  he  still 
aware  of  the  taste  of  sunlight,  of  salt,  the  balsam  taste  of 
the  islands  which  the  soft  breeze  carries  to  him  through 
the  open  port? 

Still,  full  light  sustains  the  blue  tent  of  sky  at  the  zenith, 
but  upon  him  night  has  already  fallen — night  upon  that 

eminent  head, night  upon  that  brain! Rupert  Brooke 

has  become  unconscious. 

nApril  twenty -third. 

It  is  just  4.46  in  the  afternoon.  A  quartermaster  knocks 

at  the  Captain's  door.  With  his  hand  at  the  salute  he  says 

quite  calmly, — for  out  there  in  Flanders  last  winter  he 

got  used  to  delivering  such  messages: 

"  Captain, the  English  lieutenant  is  dead." 

For  him,you  see, it  is  a  man  like  another.  And  we  live 

in  times  when  the  death  of  a  man  is  a  very  small  matter. 

Never  did  face  seem  paler  on  the  bed  of  death.   Is  it 

because  of  that  black  mark  on  the  lip?  Or  is  it  that  the 

Eastern  light  beats  more  pitilessly  on  the  skin  of  this  man 


[    6    ] 
from  the  North?  Everybody  is  silent.  Then  a  voice  says: 

"England  has  lost  her  greatest  poet." 

Orders  come  in  while  the  coffin  is  being  prepared.  We 
are  to  sail  tonight.  The  hour  draws  near  for  a  demonstra- 
tion in  force  against  the  straits.  We  must  hurry.  Come 
on;  close  down  the  coffin. 

O  pale,  pale,  English  face  that  no  one  will  look  on  ever 
again!  Face  of  passion,  of  dreams,  and  of  torment!  Poetry 
not  of  the  world,  but  of  beyond  the  world,  dwelling  so 
early  on  the  other  side, 

"Do  they  still  whisper, the  old  weary  cries, 
Mid  youth  and  song,feasting  and  carnival, 
Through  laughter,  through  the  roses,  as  of  old. 
Comes  Death,  on  shadowy  and  relentless  feet, 
Death,unappeasable  by  prayer  or  gold; 
Death  is  the  end, the  end! " 

The  coffin  is  placed  on  the  poop  and  covered  with  the 
English  flag.  Sixteen  palms  decorate  this  improvised 
chapel.  The  officers  of  the  T)uguay-Trouin  lay  on  the 
coffin  a  bunch  of  flowers,  the  best  they  could  get — wild 
flowers  stolen  from  the  bees  of  the  island  and  tied  with 
the  French  colours. 

At  the  foot  of  the  coffin  stands  a  sailor  presenting  arms. 
Lieutenant  Asquith,  who  has  not  left  his  friend  for  a 
moment,  is  at  the  side  of  the  bier  with  some  other  Eng- 
lish officers. 

A  brief  twilight.   The  night  falls. 

From  the  Qanopus  the  English  commander  signals: 
"Make  haste."  As  there  is  no  time  to  engrave  a  brass 
plate,  the  Lieutenant  asks  for  a  cauterizing  iron.  Then 
by  the  light  of  the  lamps,  which  are  like  a  wreath  of 


[    7    ] 
watchlights,  he  sears  on  the  oak  plank  itself  these  letters : 

A  sharp  whistle  is  heard:  "All  hands  on  deck."  The 
ship's  company  lines  up  with  bared  heads  to  pay  the  last 
honours. 

A  launch  takes  the  boat  which  carries  the  coffin  in  tow. 
Other  boats  put  off  from  the  warships. 

There  are  many  of  them,  and  they  glide  over  the  water 
like  a  holiday  procession,  like  those  gigs  which  set  off  at 
evening  from  the  ships  of  the  Mediterranean  squadron  to 
go  to  the  Corso.  Towards  what  Cythera  are  cadenced 
all  these  oars  ?  Music  sounds  as  they  pass ;  the  huge  ships 
one  after  another  send  them  gusts  of  harmony,  but  the 
airs  are  solemn  and  low.  The  night  is  soft  with  a  sheen 
of  moon,  bestarred.  The  perfume  of  the  isle  drifts 
through  the  night,  becoming  stronger  and  stronger. 
The  boats  in  line  steer  towards  a  little  cove.  A  hue  like 
pearl  floats  on  the  water. 

At  the  landing  place  several  English  officers  are  wait- 
ing and  a  guard  of  honour.  Twelve  Australian  giants, 
splendid-looking  men  in  service  uniforms,  come  for- 
ward. They  wear  broad-brimmed  felt  hats,  cartridge 
belts,  and  fastened  round  their  waists  are  the  cords  which 
will  be  used  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave. 

The  chaplain  has  slipped  a  surplice  over  his  uniform. 

Here  is  a  gently  sloping  valley.  It  is  hard  to  tell  whether 
there  have  ever  been  paths:  if  so,  they  have  left  no  trace. 
The  ground  is  marble;  underneath  these  loose  oxidized 
stones  are  royal  foundations — pillars  or  statues  ready  to 
spring  forth  from  the  gleaming  hillside.   Accordingly 


[  8  ] 
the  vegetation  is  sparse— brush  wood,  little  holly-bushes 
shadowy  like  ghosts.  The  Australians  make  slow  head- 
way. A  meagre  light  is  shed  about  them  by  lanterns  and 
torches  which  illumine  one  step  and  leave  the  next  in 
darkness.  Sometimes  they  slip,  half  stumble,  and  can  not 
help  jolting  their  burden.  The  marble  pebbles  turn  un- 
der their  feet.  The  brambles  hide  pitfalls.  Their  heavy 
laced  boots  press  the  aromatic  shrubs.  A  bewitching 
odour,  a  mingling  of  pepper  and  musk,  rises  like  incense. 
The  wan  moonlight  lingers  on  the  end  of  the  procession 
where  the  torches  flicker  no  more.  Their  flames  trail 
away  in  ruddy  and  smoky  tresses  which  the  night  hastens 
to  cover  with  her  silverine  purity. 

Not  a  village,  not  a  house,  not  a  road.  We  keep  on 
marching— two  miles  perhaps.   Here  is  the  place ! 

Silence. 

Some  olive  trees  in  a  more  fertile  hollow;  the  breeze  is 
half  asleep  between  their  leaves.  At  their  foot  a  grave 
has  been  dug. 

"  If  I  should  die  think  only  this  of  me : 
That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England." 

O  conquering  heart!  Through  what  malign  fate  art 
thou  given  pause  in  this  place  on  the  eve  of  battle,  before 
the  sacramental  spilling  of  thy  blood?  True  English- 
man, strong  in  pride,  who  came  hither,  as  in  old  days 
Achilles  when  he  hid  at  the  court  of  Lycomedes,  to 
await  a  glorious  and  violent  taking  off— Rupert  Brooke, 
who  carried  within  thee  a  homesickness  for  immor- 
tality, "sets  thy  star,0  heart, forever?" 


[    9    ] 

The  grave  is  opened  at  this  very  place  where  doubtless 
thy  last  poem—  the  final  poem  too  beautiful  to  be  written 
— sang  in  harmony  with  the  high-pulsed  rhythm  of  thy 
blood.  Lieutenant  Asquith  comes  forward:  he  thinks 
the  grave  is  too  small.  Who  shall  know  the  measure  of 
a  great  man  ?  He  goes  down  into  the  grave  and  takes  the 
lugubrious  spade  himself,  and  with  only  the  aid  of  an- 
other officer  digs  the  ground,  like  a  brother  unwilling  to 
leave  to  anyone  else  the  last  pieties  for  him  he  loved. 

The  chaplain  has  ended  his  prayer.  An  order  is  given. 
Three  volleys  roll  through  the  mountains,  rending  the 
air  with  abrupt  claps  which  are  tossed  from  one  elevation 
to  another,  echoing.  Thereupon  the  silent  night  be- 
comes mysteriously  alive.  The  owls  cry  out, scared, and 
little  bells,  any  number  of  little  bells,  tinkle  all  around. 
They  come  from  the  drowsy  flocks  which  are  fright- 
ened, from  the  sheep  and  goats  suddenly  awakened  in 
terror  and  rushing  away  headlong  through  the  sweet- 
scented  brushwood.  It  is  the  passing-bell  for  Orpheus 
on  the  necks  of  innocent  and  untamed  animals,  whose 
invisible  bells  sweep  lightly  over  the  invisible  bushes. 

And  then  it  is  silence  again;  and  it  shall  always  be 
silence. 

Tomorrow  the  ships  will  weigh  anchor.  After  just 
touching  at  Moudros  and  Tenedos  they  will  engage  in 
the  heroic  enterprise  of  the  Dardanelles,  and  for  many 
a  day  those  who  followed  the  poet  to  the  grave  will 
hardly  have  time  to  recall  underadeluge  of  fire  thelonely 
mound  lost  in  solitary  Scyros.   Nevertheless 

"There  shall  be 
In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed : 


[   lo  ] 
A  dust  whom  England  bore, shaped,  made  aware, 
Gave  once  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 
Washed  by  rivers,blest  by  suns  of  home." 


JLl.  ow  can  we  help  picturing  the  Muse  with  silken  curls 
seated  in  that  little  dell,  her  feet  resting  on  the  marble 
soil  of  the  island,  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  chin  held 
in  the  palm  of  her  fragile  hand — the  pale  and  spiritual 
Muse  of  England. 

She  is  watchful  and  she  meditates.  This  is  not  the  first 
time  she  has  known  the  Grecian  land;  she  has  already 
bent  over  another  genius  there.  It  will  soon  be  a  hun- 
dred years  since  Byron  died  of  cholera  at  Missolonghi. 
Flaming  with  Romanticism  in  action,  he  had  come  to 
pluck  Greece  in  her  agony  from  the  throttling  hand  of 
the  oppressor.  Today  it  is  once  more  against  the  Turk 
we  must  do  battle,  and  behind  the  Turk  a  redoubtable 
and  prepared  Barbarism — the  modern  onrush  of  Attila. 

To  Brooke,  as  to  Byron,  the  poet's  laurel  seemed  a  slight 
thing,  thought  alone  unsatisfying.  What  he  needed  was 
the  khaki  uniform  and  a  revolver  at  his  belt,  which  alas! 
he  never  had  a  chance  to  fire  off. 

And  so  the  Muse  lingers  there,  for  it  is  a  propitiatory 
altar.  Here  lies  the  first  Englishman  fallen  by  the  road- 
side, the  chosen  victim,  the  hostage  offered  to  malevo- 
lent fate,  the  libation. 

She  watches;  she  waits.  Mornings  will  follow  in  the 
odorous  deserted  place,  the  sun  will  shift  the  strip  of 
shade  cast  by  the  small  olive  trees,  winter  storms  will 


[  I>  ] 

beat  about  the  island,  and  it  will  be  by  rare  chance  that 
some  goatherd  clad  in  skins  climbs  the  hill  and  passes 
there,  or  some  fisherman  in  whose  basket  gleams  the 
silver-bellied  fish. 

The  Muse  watches,  and  the  obscure  colloquy  in  which 
she  is  absorbed  alters  her  immemorial  presence  little  by 
little. 

When  the  great  war  is  over,  those  who  go  to  seek  the 
cherished  ashes  of  the  poet  will  see  arise  beneath  the 
olive  trees  of  Scyros  a  glorious  countenance  they  have 
not  yet  seen.  Liberty  sprang  from  Byron's  grave;  O 
Rupert  Brooke,  look  forth  with  us  and  see  Victory  arise 
from  thine! 


THREE  HUNDRED  COPIES  OF  THIS  BOOK  HAVE  BEEN 
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IT.  iA.  'Bradley  •  Tale  University  Tress  •  7^w  Haven 


mm  unRAKY 
-1-  0^40 


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